


Be My Baby (Or Be My Man)

by KISSHIMALREADY



Series: Greaser!Verse [1]
Category: Avenged Sevenfold, Fall Out Boy, Green Day, My Chemical Romance
Genre: A lot of boys want sexy times with Frank, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Asshole!Gerard, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fist Fights, Greaser!Gerard, Greasers, M/M, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, competitive courting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KISSHIMALREADY/pseuds/KISSHIMALREADY
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank Iero, stepson of a famous classic metal frontman and producer, is perfectly content with the life he's been living for the past six years, travelling across the country and attending shows with his mother Linda, playing guitar in the pubs, meeting band after band. He's made a few enemies, gained a few friendships, but has never met a group of people who've made him want to stay in one place for more than the usual few months.</p><p>At least, not until an impromptu trip to the local movie theatre changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

            Frank Iero wore his Mickey Mouse tee and boxers to class today. He figured his teacher’s complaints of his new take on uniform stem from a biased hatred towards classic Disney cartoons, and assumed the fact that he decided to wear a top _at all_ for the past two mornings would earn him a merit of some kind. Instead, he got a smack on the head and a bunch of reprimanding with phrases like “first impression” and “taken seriously” fading in and out. It’s not that the young man is clueless when it comes to being presentable, and he surely isn’t anti-education, given his 3.8 GPA and great fascination with advanced chemistry. It’s just pretty hard to bother with real clothes when his teacher’s wearing a similar bed-time ensemble, is smoking a cigarette for breakfast, and holds class in his kitchen.

            “Can I…?” Frank starts, already reaching for the cigarette lazily sitting between Mr. Moore’s lips. With a cursory glance towards the kitchen entrance, the significantly-older man lets his stepson-slash-student steal the cigarette. Frank grimaces at the string of saliva threatening to make an appearance and quickly replaces it, the man’s thin lips now forming a knowing smile. Mr. Moore—Or as Frank and his mother call him, Eddie—has always had an issue with wet cigarette filters, and tends to spit on people when he gets too excited during an argument of any kind.

            “All for the best. Linda would kill me if she knew.”

            “What, that I smoke? We smoke in the kitchen all the time-,”

            “No, that you contributed to the kidnapping of her new pack of smokes.”

            Eddie flashes one of his signature smiles from across the table. His long teeth are overwhelmingly-crooked, having seen too many dark liquors and hard drugs for the past thirty-something years. They are the only thing that throws off his otherwise handsome face, framed by long wavy blonde hair that will probably take hours to untangle.

            “Well, since my smoking plans are ruined, mind if I make a cup of coffee before we dive in?” Frank croaks, shuffling towards the fresh brew and pouring before he could get a reply. His entire right side is aching from sleeping in the most fucked up positions in his new bed (Apparently Unconscious Frank has taken interest in contortionism), while his left arm stings and itches with a new tattoo.

            “I was thinking, since advanced calculus is Hell in a Textbook, do you think we could skip out on that course for my last semester? How about we make a little time for an extracurricular, like music or something? That way we could have more free time, you know?”

            Frank waits for a response, which could either be a nonchalant “sure” or a mocking but sung “dream on”, but gets silence as he spots an unopened box of blueberry PopTarts and rips it open.

            “Um…Eddie, did you hear me?”

            The instant Frank turns around, he finds his mother sitting in Eddie’s lap, cupping his face, taking an impressive amount of her husband’s tongue down her throat. Frank feels he should be used to it by now. He should be proud that his mother found another man so perfect for her and still sort of maintains that newlywed mindset after six years. So, Frank takes the most mature approach and audibly gags, bending over and holding his free hand to his stomach for dramatic effect.

            “Oh, shut your mouth,” she grins, rising to her feet to tighten the belt to her robe.  He takes in the sight of her swollen lips and equally-tangled hair and groans. Clearly that scooting sound he heard last night was not the sound of his parents unpacking.

            “What’s wrong, bambino?” she coos, pecking him on the cheek before pulling a mug out for herself.

            _Um, I dunno, maybe the fact that you’re rubbing your post-coital bliss in my face first thing in the morning_ , he thinks. He settles for “just hungry”, which isn’t exactly a lie.

            “I don’t see how, I made you some pancakes and facon an hour ago,” she shrugs. Immediately, Eddie’s shoulders start to shake as he flips his master textbook open and covers his mouth. Even with his back turned to Frank, there’s no mistaking his silent laughter. Frank play-slaps Eddie on the arm and takes a chair across from him.

            “Thanks for eating my breakfast, it’s not like I wanted a meal to start off my day or anything.”

            “Eddie!” Linda exclaims, both annoyed and amused. It’s definitely one of those moments that makes Frank feel like he lives in a strange sitcom. He nearly expects a laugh track to set off, the audience looking forward to their favorite mischievous character’s antics. Or maybe Eddie made him watch way too many episodes of Seinfeld last night.

            “I guess this is the homeschooler’s version of getting lunch money stolen?”

            “You gotta be fast in this house, kid, or your things are gone in the blink of an eye,” he laughs, pointing a long finger at him.

            “What are we, in jail?” Frank asks around a mouthful of PopTart as his mom joins them at the table.

            “I’m just sayin’, if it’s there, it’s yours for the taking,” he shrugs. Linda is the second one to play-slap him, warning him about missing car keys.

            “Is that your way of justifying why you’re wearing my shirt?” Frank muses. Because Eddie’s all bones, long limbs, and scraggly hair, the Danzig shirt fits him with no stretch. He could easily wear Frank’s clothes from middle school if he wanted to, if he didn’t mind showing off half of his flat stomach.

            “Exactly. Now, are we settled in, Class?” Eddie bellows, letting his cigarette extinguish itself in his cup of coffee. Frank perks up at the mention of his so-called nickname.

            “Paratus est, Mr. Moore,” Frank replies.

            “Paratus _sum_ ,” Eddie corrects. “Ten points from Gryffindor.” 


	2. Ghost Town

            “We are so proud of you, Frankie,” Linda whispers, grabbing him by the chin and landing a wet kiss on the corner of his lips and his stepdad gives him a slap on the back. Despite having to discretely wipe his mother’s lipstick off his face, the statement itself leaves him feeling warm and excited. No matter how many times he may have heard it tonight, the effect still remains.

            “That’s right, kid, you did it!” Eddie nods.

            “No, _we_ did it,” Linda corrects, smiling down at her menu. Given the amount of pride and jubilance everyone’s experiencing, Frank decides it’s an opportune moment to ask if he can have a beer.

            “No. No way-,”

            “Come on, Ma, just one little drink?”

            “We’re new here. I happen to like this restaurant, and I don’t really like the idea of getting kicked out for bad parenting-,”

            “What, since when is it bad parenting to let me celebrate with one beer? The drinking age in the U.K. is eighteen, you know-,”

            “Frankie. She said ‘no’,” Eddie finally says. Defeated, Frank sits back in his seat and joins them in perusing the menu as well. “I, on the other hand, say ‘yes’.”

            Frank immediately perks up, looking between the two adults as they have a staring contest. A _real_ staring contest, which Linda tends to win. Silently, Frank roots for Eddie, just as he did four years ago when Eddie drunkenly suggested the most amazing tradition Frank has ever heard: that Frank gets a new tattoo each time they visit a new state. Whether being inebriated helped him or not, Eddie had given Linda a careful, hard stare before she blinked and shoved him. Eddie winning was a rare moment. Sadly, right now was not one of these rare moments.

            When it’s time to order, the waitress, a young redheaded woman, spots the “Congratulations!” cards stacked next to Frank’s bundle of silverware and offers a drink on the house. He awkwardly mentions that he’s only eighteen before she grins and shrugs, “As long as the guardians are okay with it, it’s fine.”

            He has to literally bite his tongue to keep from saying “Ha!” to his mom, who’s still very reluctant. He is, after all, trying to prove he’s mature enough to drink a beer. _Mature people don’t stick their tongues out at their mom_ , he reminds himself.

            “Fine, fine, but if you two get out of hand, don’t expect me to leave my meal when you’re kicked out-,”

            “Relax, honey,” Ed laughs. Six years and she’s still part of that cautious woman who gave herself an early bedtime.

            “Now!” he shouts, jumping out of his chair. He’s not too much of a disturbance, but he’s loud enough to catch the attention of a few people nearby.

            “Please, raise your glasses…”

            Frank is amazed by how high he and his mother can raise their beers while sinking so low in their seats.

            “Tonight, our Frankie is an accomplished man. This is all for you, Frank Iero…Official high school graduate!”

            The three of them whoop and cheer and it’s all cheesy and wonderful, Frank accepting pats on the back from fellow diners like he’s in the beginning of a lame family movie. They also earn their fair share of annoyed looks from people, but no one else really matters to Frank and his family today. No one can piss on Frank’s happiness, not since Eddie and his mother carefully opened that big envelope this morning and revealed a proper Diploma and hard-earned transcript. The Hallmark moment that he never pictured himself having was enough to make the eighteen-year-old break down in tears.

            Celebrating with his parents didn’t bother him in the least. Obviously, most young men his age got shit-faced with other graduates, or got laid one last time with a high school crush at a graduation party before running off to college. Actually, Frank wasn’t sure what kids did on the night they graduate, not really. Most of his guessing is based off of the teenage slasher flicks he manages to catch every other night, but he trusts that he’s accurate enough. And after thinking about it, he wouldn’t want to celebrate any other way, with any other people. Linda and Eddie are his best friends.

* * *

 

            Eventually the celebration period died down, approximately a week after New Years. He had completed high school (and a few college courses) a semester earlier than everyone else in his “class” and wasn’t prepared for the free mornings ahead. Eddie and Frank had to quickly adjust to a more comfortable sleeping schedule, one that permitted them not to wake up at seven in the morning after staying up (or out) late at night.

            For the twelfth morning in a row, they dragged themselves into the kitchen, blinked at each other, and waited for the “oh, right, graduated” realization to send them back to bed. After a while, Eddie caught on and started a new schedule of sleeping in late and heading out to watch bands after two or three in the afternoon, when he’s not at home dealing with the studio on the phone or via email all day. Clearly, it was time for Frank to “get into his own groove”, as his stepdad kept putting it.

            So on a Tuesday, mid-January, Frank decides to do just that. The second he emerges from the house, his nose shrivels and his fingertips prickle. He instantly begins to wonder if he had committed some serious betrayal of some sort lately, because he’s pretty sure he just stepped out into the ninth circle of hell. It has to be ten fucking degrees out, and not a single footprint appears in the four inches of snow that stopped falling only hours ago.

            Shit.

            He leans into the door, hand still on the knob, anticipating the warmth of the house, welcoming him back into its arms and holding him. He’s aching for it, for his toasty blankets and new box of chocolate milk powder, to lie back and maybe jerk off and watch another movie, maybe video chat with his friend Pete. But he refrains. He knows if he heads back inside and kicks off his shoes and spends one more day neglecting his new smaller town, he’ll get shit for it. His nickname had quickly changed from “Class” to “Lazyass” in a matter of days. Frank decides he’d rather not be teased by his parents.

            Sucking it up and clomping his way down the stairs, he crosses his arms and heads downtown. He doesn’t have a drivers license yet, and there’s no way in hell his bike survived those last two months of rain and snow and bitter wind uncovered on the side of the house; which is why it takes him about twenty minutes to make it to the main markets. It only took the first ten minutes for him to realize how boring Victor, New York is.

           Sure, he finds an alright diner, a tea and antique shop, and a record store, but the only people he’s seen on his outing so far were employees, people in their cars, and the occasional woman carrying grocery bags and a child. And those people were either over forty years old or haven’t taken their first steps yet. All of the buildings are ramshackle and old-fashioned and fucking terrifying, making Frank feel as though he’s trapped in a Vincent Price classic. It’s too quiet, too cold, too… _not right_. Maybe there’s a reason no one’s coming out, he thinks. Maybe there’s a town secret he’ll accidentally uncover, or a cult.

           Or, maybe, Frank’s seen way too many movies.

           After a few more fruitless turns he finds himself back inside of the tea and antique shop, Zuni’s. The cashier he chatted with before, Jamia, was still sitting cross-legged in front of one of the many buckets of dusty comic books in the back corner, hidden behind too-close shelves of shit solely made to be accidentally broken.

           “You’re back!” she grins, looking up at him from what seems to be a fighting montage.

           “Yeah, um…This town’s pretty-,”

           “Dead? Sh’yeah, I know. Weekdays are the worst, everyone’s in school.”

**Oh.**

           Duh.

           He watches her go back to the book, her black and purple hair covering her face. She’s wearing a faded Goosebumps tee, a tutu-like red skirt, and black-and-white striped tights. Frank decides if he’s going to try out this make friends thing, he’s got to know this girl. And he’ll have to start with doing something other than hovering over her in silence like a creep.

           “Hey-,”

           “Jamia!”

           The shout from the back curtain of the shop startles the both of them, Frank especially. The woman’s yell is the loudest thing he’s heard all day.

           “Coming! Crap, I hafta get back to the counter, Mom’s gonna kill me,” she whispers, hurriedly stuffing the X-Men 2099 in the closest bucket. Frank cringes when he sees the back page get caught on an edge and rip, but tries to ignore it. Jamia hops to her feet and smoothes down her hair and clothes before grabbing Frank by his shoulders and staring straight into his eyes. The contact is sudden, but he’s not very nervous, just uncomfortable. He doesn’t mind being touched, he’s known to invade a lot of personal space, but the urgency in her action causes him to tense up. What if she tries to kiss him, what then?

           “Do I _look_ high? Do I look okay?”

           Determined to have her shaky hands anywhere but on him, he nods his head frantically without a second thought. After she lets go and sighs in relief, Frank wants to smack himself in the face, because now that he’s getting a good look at her, she looks fantastically-high. Her eyes are glazed over with a red tint, there’s an unnatural smirk pulling at the corners of her red lips, and she seems to be swaying. Frank feels stoned just staring at her, and has to chuckle.

           “Just, relax. Here,” he murmurs, grabbing a pair of cat-eye sunglasses on a chipped vanity set nearby and sliding them on her face. She thanks him with a smile and he giggles because, yep, she still looks high.

           “You’re awesome. What’s your name again?”

           “Frank.”

           “Frank from everywhere. Right,” she nods, most likely recalling their previous introductions from his first visit.

           “Look, I’ll see ya around, I hafta get back.”

           She motions to the checkout counter two feet behind her, as if it’s a mile away.

           “Cool. Nice meeting you, Jami-“

           “Oh! Um, I just thought about this, if you need something to do, there’s a cool theatre three blocks farther down, to the left, past the Laundromat.”

           “Sweet. Thanks again-,”

           “JAMIA!”

           She winces after they both land back on their feet from her mom’s unexpected outburst.

           “Sorry,” she whispers.

           “No problem. See ya around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took a CENTURY to add a new chapter. I've been writing the story in a notebook and have been too lazy to type it up and upload. But now I'm getting to it, and I would LOVE to have a BETA reader, ASAP. Hope you like it so far.


	3. Ticket for One

           The theatre was not three blocks away.

            The theatre was several blocks away, and after a failed attempt to complete the journey, Frank found himself way too exhausted from trudging through the snowy sidewalks, and called Eddie to pick him up. Despite the incredible amount of snow his shoes managed to collect, and the subtle gusts of chilling wind, he buried himself under blankets just in time to dodge getting a case of pneumonia when he returned home. He couldn’t breathe through his nose for a good three days, and had a sore throat for the first night, but the sickness only lasting for such a short amount of time is a miracle because his mom emerged a winner in the Bi-Monthly Battle between Frank’s Immune System and Linda Iero.

            On the weekend, once the snow had begun melting, Frank decided to stop being a walking germ and visit the theatre via bus route. Entering the brick monstrosity that was Black Curtain Cinema, he had a couple of expectations. One being that it’d be just as silent and vacant as its vast lot. Just a look into the glass face of the theatre let him know it was in desperate need of a customer or two. Another expectation Frank had had was that the theatre would be filled with the sound of movie trailers blasting through the lobby, just to make up for the lifelessness. Either of those was pretty logical. What Frank didn’t expect was a voice.

            Not just any voice, a man’s voice, singing broad and loud, so sure and demanding, yet smooth and almost soothing. He knew it had to be coming from somewhere inside, it was far too authentic to be blasting from a speaker, and Frank could count uneven pauses between lines like “sometimes I give myself the creeps”. It made Frank want to hear more. He wanted to dive in and swim in this man’s voice, let it carry him wherever it wanted him to be. And little did he know, it was already doing just that, for he was opening his eyes ( _when the hell did he close them?_ ) and saw that his legs have already carried him closer to the source, until his body was pressed close to the concession stand counter.

            The glass surface was slimy with popcorn butter, adorned with smudgy fingerprints, and anyone fifteen feet away could measure the thick layers of dust collecting on the displayed junk. Sadly, Frank noticed its grimy state a second too late, and frowned at the long streak of gunk that stuck to his cardigan sleeve as he peeled it away and let it drop back to his side. He was quiet enough for the whirs and clicks of the popcorn kettles to mask his arrival, so he wasn’t surprised to see no one had bothered to approach him yet.

            The man who had been singing, still throwing out a few phrases and humming melodies on occasion, was immediately spotted sitting down on two milk crates at the far end of the stand, only hidden because of height, just below the counter as he slumped forward over what appeared to be a composition notebook. His black hair was stiff from absurd amounts of gel or hairspray and spiked out in various directions, and he wore a maroon polo and black pleated pants over his mangled Chuck Taylor shoes. Uniform, obviously. It didn’t take long for him to snap his head up and rush over to the counter, carrying himself in the same careless posture as Jamia, Frank noticed.

            Frank immediately felt his palms getting sweaty because, wow, those marble green orbs staring back at him! They were both cartoonish and a little brooding on his round face. The fact that they were messily-outlined with thick black lines of eyeliner didn’t ease the effect, or that the young man was widening his eyes at Frank, as if he were an old missing friend.

            “Whoa, when the hell did you get in here, kid?” the guy asked. Frank scoffed to himself. _Kid?_ Sure, the guy looked a bit older, but had to be in his early twenties, not necessarily old enough to call Frank a kid.       

            “I, uh…Sorry, I just- Someone told me about this theatre a few days ago and…Fuck, this is the only place I could think of going, I’ve kind of seen everything else downtown, so…”

            Frank bit his bottom lip to shut up, Christ, he was probably stammering like an idiot. To his surprise, the guy’s interested stare never wavered as Frank talked, and when it got quiet again, he rested his hands on either side of the cash register. Clearly he was aware of the mess on the counter because his hands and fingers strategically landed on the most non-deadly spots. There’s no doubt he was studying Frank, the kid, who wanted to turn back around and run out of the theatre, away from the critical staring. He stayed, though, decided to do a mini-inspection of his own. He clocked the employee’s equally-short height, nice build, ivory skin, and pouty lips opened to show crooked teeth. In a weird way, Frank concluded this guy was pretty hot. Billie Joe, according to the nametag. _Ha, a Billie Joe in a small town. No surprise there._

            Billie suddenly chuckled, and even though Frank grinned back out of habit, he was sort of confused. And attracted. And shy. Which is pretty funny. Throw the kid in a bar full of thirty-plus year old metal heads or a school full of giggly girls, and Frank can be one charming little fucker. Ease him into a room with a pretty hot guy around his age and Frank can’t breathe. Especially when said guy seemed to be the only hot guy Frank had seen in weeks. Who could sing!

            “What’s so funny?” Frank asked.

            “Nothin’, I just realized we were, y’know, checkin’ each other out for, like, an hour,” he shrugged, the two of them laughing at his exaggeration. Frank could feel himself blushing, and could already here Pete calling him Princess Peach. But soon he felt a bit better knowing he’d finally be able to gush to his Jersey friend about his flirtatious exchange.

            _Holy shit,_ is _this flirting?_ He thought.

            “Guess we were,” Frank agreed.

            “So why ain’t’cha in school? Skip today?”

            “I graduated. Last month, actually.” Frank’s blush threatened to paint his cheeks an even darker shade of pink. He didn’t mean to sound so “Yay, I graduated, motherfuckers!” but that’s exactly how it came out.

            “Hey, good for you, man, the faster you get out of that shithole, the better, right?” the concessionist grinned.

            “Yeah,” Frank nodded.

_Real smooth. You really are a heartbreaker, Frankie._

            “Alright, so obviously you’ve never been here before, I woulda remembered you. That’ll be seven bucks,” Billie said, popping the cash drawer open and already holding out a ripped ticket stub.

            “Huh? But, I… I didn’t tell you what movie I’m seeing-,”

            “We get a new horror flick for one of the auditoriums every two days, some mainstream, some indie. I rung you up for The Ghouls of Montmort High. You’ll like it,” he assured him, a smile in his voice. Frank, dumbfounded, felt Billie reach over and yank the ten dollar bill from between his fingers. He collected the change with maximum speed, maybe a bit too skilled at forcing movies on semi-clueless moviegoers.

            “It’s theatre six, on the right. My right, not your right, definitely your left. That way, sorry,” he chuckled. “Have fun.”

            And with that, Billie tapped the edge of the counter with his index knuckle—as if that concluded the entire interaction—and strolled back over to his makeshift seat. It was so abrupt that it left Frankie blinking at the counter for at least ten seconds before he finally made his way to the auditorium, which, it turned out, was actually on his right. Stale popcorn kernels stuck to the tacky eighties carpet, and there were even more grease stains on most of the door handles. For a moment, Frank panicked that he’d stepped into a porn theatre, it sure was sleazy enough. _Black Curtain_? The name itself isn’t too far of a stretch. But he immediately pushed the thought from his mind when he entered theatre six and saw opening credits for The Ghouls of Montmort High already rolling. Teenage boys and girls of the most generic stereotypes were cheering and playing an overly-active game of volleyball, sometimes stopping to make eyes at each other or trash talk. No clothes seemed to be coming off, so that was more reassuring proof that this wasn’t a porn theatre. Not yet, anyway.

            Then, he saw them: the Greasers of Black Curtain Cinema. They all sat together in the very center of the theatre, tossing popcorn in the air to catch in their mouths, feet propped up sometimes, quietly bothering one another. Frankie had no desire to be noticed by them, knowing that guys like these, especially as a group, had to be the kind of assholes who’d harass a small nerd like him, so he slipped into a seat four rows behind them. He thought about lowering in his seat until he realized he was so short that he barely had to, another thing he could imagine Pete giving him shit for.

            The b-horror movie was a clusterfuck of awkward sex scenes (as in “this is my first time having sex, what do I do? [silent fumbling ensues]”, not “I’m in a theatre watching teenage sex with strangers, this is awkward, get me outta here”). During, two of the three mysterious guys ahead of Frank muttered various things to make the other either chuckle or shush them. There were slimy, plastic-skinned, bloody ghouls invading busy classrooms, at which the guys would honk with laughter and cheer and nod. When the hero of the movie returned to football practice as a ghoul and proceeded to messily rip off the limbs of the opposing team during the final game, Frank swears he heard one of the guys moan, “Ugh, this is porn to me”. The mysterious trio also stayed for the movie a bit longer to check out the closing credits, giving Frank enough leeway to slip back out of the theatre unnoticed and rush back to the bus stop before he hyperventilated at the idea of facing them all in fluorescent lighting.

            That was Frank’s first visit to the movie theatre, exactly two weeks ago. Since then, he’s started a funny little routine that involved Billie and the theatre, one that allowed him to stalk the mysterious guys.

            _Well, not exactly stalk. It_ is _a movie theatre, open to the public_ , Frank tries to tell himself. Except, no. It’s clearly stalking. So clear that Frank can almost predict some of their reactions to specific scenes. He looks forward to their indirect company and inappropriate commentary and reactions. He almost convinces himself that he’s got big enough balls to finally walk up to them and initiate introductions the one time he sees them in the lobby, late for a show. (Frank always tries to get in later than the guys, for…well, stalker reasons.) He’s a creep though, so he just slips behind one of the shitty arcade racing games and waits for them to go inside to figure out what they’re seeing.

            There were three of them, the first, third, and fourth time Frank’s seen a movie with the men, but he soon found out there are usually only the two. This third one that seldom joins, wears a black leather jacket, semi-tight jeans, and what seems to be a tucked-in Batman t-shirt, or, to Frank’s admiration, a faded Doom Patrol t-shirt. He’s the least excited out of the three of them, and barely speaks. When he does, it’s to say something dirty or witty, or both. Beneath his finger-combed black locks are thick dark brows sitting above a pair of very pretty eyes. He is, generally, very pretty. So pretty that he’s the one Frank finds himself always staring at, or looking for when he’s absent. He’s too pretty to glare as much as he does when Frank sees him, which he does a lot. When Pretty Boy’s not throwing an angry look at the screen, he’s directing it towards his two buddies, especially the one who talks almost relentlessly.

            The Talker’s hair is the first thing Frank noticed about him. It’s dark and shaved on the sides, but the rest is a bleached blonde, combed and gelled back into a slight pompadour. He too wears a leather jacket, though instead of roughened and black, it’s dark brown and clean-cut, accompanied with blue jeans and cowboy boots. He’s got prominent bone structure, a strong chin, and a very monotone voice. He speaks low and quickly, mostly in either of the guy’s ears, so Frank rarely catches the words that make the Talker’s friends chuckle in their fists or shoot him annoyed looks. Somehow, even with the lack of deadly stares, he intimidates Frank the most. The way he carries himself, Frank is convinced he’s the oldest of the three, the leader, the one in charge, maybe.

            The least intimidating of the men is the Bowler. Frank has no idea whether or not he actually goes bowling, he’s quite confident the guy doesn’t bowl at all. He only gave him the secret nickname because the guy seems to have an endless collection of retro bowling shirts. They are always the same style, fifties, short to show off his colorful sleeve tattoos, but so far Frank’s seen an impressive number of pastel colors from the Bowler. Sea foam green, sky blue, Easter egg yellow, soft salmon pink… And if anyone were to doubt calling the trio greasers, they just had to take one look at him and the suspicion is squashed. His hair, so black and shiny it had to be professionally polished, is slicked back so tight and precise, a nearly unnoticeable side-part interrupting the perfection of his classic pompadour. The Bowler was most likely the least intimidating because he sleeps in a majority of the movies. When he finds himself able to stay awake, he’s usually grinning with the Talker. He also loves to laugh at very odd scenes, like uncomfortable arguments, or dramatic funerals, earning a look of confusion from his pals _and_ Frank.

            As strange (and frankly embarrassing) as the sentiment may be, Frank considers the greasers to be new friends. In reality, he can only apply that to Billie Joe, which he doesn’t mind at all. Slowly but surely, they do become acquainted with each other. The fifth time Frank visited the theatre, Billie grabbed his hands and compared their callused fingers.

            “Guitar player, huh?” Billie smirked. Frank, who now had the extra time to begin practicing more, couldn’t help but exchange favorite punk band names with the theatre worker, and Frank just knew he had hearts in his eyes the entire time. Two days later, Frank found himself taking off his cardigan for the guy, because he wanted to see more of Frank’s tattoos after admitting to his curiosity, and names were properly exchanged, as well as hometowns, and ages. Billie’s all the way from California, but that news isn’t as shocking as the man being twenty-six years old. With the eight year age difference, Frank wasn’t sure whether to feel confused, turned on, or… like a kid.

            “Hey, I popped you some fresh popcorn. On the house,” Billie winked after looking over his arms and hands and neck.

            “Aw, how sweet, you’re making me blush, Billie,” he joked, though he’s sure it was true.

            “You stripped for me, I gotta pay you somehow,” he retorted, filling a large cup with Coke slushie for him as well. “’Sides, you’re a regular now. Why not.”

            Billie Joe tried to appear nonchalant, but Frank could tell there was something hiding behind the word “regular”. Or, maybe, Frank was deluding himself, taking the light flirting and joking too seriously. Hell, he still couldn’t tell if the guy was gay, or bisexual or whatever. He had to be _something_! His insistence to create a familiarity between them only made Frank wonder what the meaning of it was, because aside from names and ages, the questions and information he presented to Frank were definitely becoming more personal. The eighth time Frank sees a movie, today, he kind of gets a clue.

            “Hey, man! Someone’s here a bit later than usual,” Billie said in mock disappointment as Frank strolled in to see a popcorn bag already prepared for him.

            “Yeah, I was out pretty late last night. Eddie got me fucking hammered, just so…”

            _Just so my mom could tear me a new asshole_ , is what Frank almost admitted. But that would have sounded extremely lame, so he finished with, “Fuck it, I’m here now”.

            “I’m glad you’re here. I get sick of seeing the same twelve people during the late-noon set,” Billie muttered. Frank was a little surprised, because he didn’t realize more than three or four people came to this theatre during the day at all.

            “So, tell me, before you go in, you have a job anywhere?”

            “No. I work on and off for my stepdad sometimes, but, right now, I’m trying to figure out what I wanna do-,”

            “Fuckin’ A. Where ya live?”

            “Uh… On Gilferd Avenue?” Frank said with reluctance, narrowing his eyes as Billie nodded and wrote on something hidden behind the counter.

            “Cool, and lastly… Do you drive or anything?”

            “I have a bike, but- Wait, why? What are you doing?”

            “You’re working here now. It’s lonely back here,” he shrugged, revealing a soda-stained application and a mischievous grin. Frank had to laugh. Mostly at Billie’s outrageous face, but also at the realization that he’d been fooling himself into thinking Billie was working up to asking him on a date or something. Fuck, how humiliating. Somehow, there’s a tiny hint of relief. It’s tiny, but it’s certainly there.

            “I don’t think I’d get the job.”

            “You’re fuckin’ kidding me, right? Bob practically picked me up off the street, outside of, y’know, a bar. I shouldn’t be workin’ here, I’m a mess! If I can get the job, you most definitely can get it, man.”

            Frank let the idea float in his mind for a bit, looking from Billie’s hopeful green eyes to the biohazard that is the concession stand. The place could definitely use a hand. A clean, thorough, pair of hands, to be exact.

            “Look, think about it, but I’m giving this to him after this set.”

            The way Billie waved the papers in front of Frank’s face makes him feel like it was more of a threat than a heads up. Just looking around and seeing how gross and dark and quiet the place is, Frank wonders how that could have been taken as anything other than a threat. And after seeing the application is pretty much filled out, Frank decides it’s an argument lost and accepts the consequences of running his big mouth. Now here he is, sipping on a watery slushie and idly making his way to the theatre to see a new Chinese ghost story. Or, more accurately, to see the greasers seeing the new Chinese ghost story.

           Fuck, he was pitiful. There’s no way in hell he could work here, that would mean ringing them up at the stand and talking to them! That would mean standing out in the lobby while these interesting men laughed those obnoxious laughs and murmured soft incomprehensible comments without Frank there to witness. And, maybe, push down on his cock over his jeans a little whenever he caught sight of Pretty Boy. **Maybe.**

           Walking in, he realizes Pretty Boy isn’t here today. _Must be at work, probably working on cars or something_ , Frank muses, taking a familiar seat two rows behind the Talker and the Bowler. They’re deep in conversation, a bit louder than usual, and it takes Frank a second to recognize it as an argument. There’s a chase scene in a huge house, violin music shrieking in the background, so Frank finds it even harder to tell who’s saying what.

           Thirty minutes into the movie, the two are still arguing. They managed to keep quiet for about ten minutes, seemingly fuming, before they decided to jump back in.

           “I’m not saying this isn’t important to me, it may even be more important, but I can’t miss another fucking week, it’s only been a month!” the Bowler nearly shouts, throwing his hands up.

           “Same here, who gives a shit?”

           “I give a shit, haven’t you noticed? Not all of us have magnificent plans to fall back on, Mikey, some of us need to graduate.”

 _Mikey? This guy,_ the Talker _, is named Mikey?_ _Huh._ Frank frowned a little. He expected the guy to be named Dallas or Trent or Walker, something sort of badass to fit this tall, lean yet built guy, but Mikey?

           “Look, like I said, if you don’t care, don’t come,” Mikey deadpans, barely shrugging a shoulder, eyes still on the screen.

           “That’s not what I’m saying!”

           “That’s kind of what I’m hearing. I mean, do you think the band’s gonna make it or not?”

           Frank feels his heart hiccup, and, sue him, his blood rushing to his dick at the thought of these guys behind instruments. It’s pretty shocking, because never in a million years did he think he’d react this way to what clearly appears to be part of a psychobilly band. He only knows of a few, like the Cramps and the Koffin Kats, probably caught a few others without caring to remember the names, but he usually just brushed the whole scene aside, returning back to sweating, screaming hardcore groups that he can thrash around in his room to. He gets so worked up that he nearly misses two things. One, that the Bowler is getting so annoyed that he’s starting to sit up straighter, on the edge of his seat, looking like he’s on the verge of shooting up to his feet and punching Mikey in the face out of frustration. Two, that the screen’s flickering.

           By the time he takes notice of the latter, the sound drops from the speakers, cutting off like a needle lifting from a record, and suddenly the entire theatre is pitch black. With that, Mikey and his angry friend’s voices stop as well. Frankie just knows this is going to escalate into something ridiculous, like a security guard storming in and yanking the two out of the theatre for public disturbance, maybe the faceless Bob that Billie’s always referring to. Frank pulls his legs up to his chest and waits for it, but nothing happens. He doesn’t even hear footsteps, or an alarm, nothing but what seems to be the Bowler’s heavy breathing. And he doesn’t want to be the first to get out of his seat. He can’t see shit, and he really doesn’t want the attention, to hear “Who’s there?” and explain himself.

           “Shit. What the hell’s goin’ on?” the Bowler finally asks, some shuffling heard.

           “Maybe this place is finally getting robbed-“

           “FUCK!” the duo yells over a sudden loud scream just beside them. It makes Frank jump out of his seat, knocking his popcorn out of his lap, his heartbeat doing somersaults in his chest. He doesn’t piss himself, but he definitely loses his hard-on. When a flashlight clicks on to illuminate the face of a very amused Billie Joe, curses are thrown instantly, a deep exhale of relief coming from Frank as he sits back down with shaky legs.

           “What the fuck do you mean ‘finally getting robbed’?” he laughs, almost doubling over.

           “Very fucking funny, Billie,” Mikey grins, playfully shoving him on the shoulder.

           “You’re lucky I got control of my reflexes or-,”

           “Oh, sure. Right. You definitely seemed like you were about to hurt me, Zacky,” Billie teases, laughing even harder. Frank concludes he definitely found his soul mate, watching him try to pull himself together.

           “What happened?” Mikey asks, sounding like his calm self again.

           “Power went out, what d’ya think? Bob’s callin’ someone right now, it’s probably some, y’know, mix up with the power lines, some houses are having trouble around here, too.”

           “Guess I’ll go loiter outside for a bit, then,” the Bowler, Zacky, sighs, the earlier argument apparently forgotten.

           Then, without warning, Billie shines the flashlight around the auditorium until it hits Frank, and he knows the three of them can see him now, hugging his legs in his seat, most likely resembling a frightened lemur. He’s ready to hear some jeering, maybe some confused or weirded-out comments, until he hears them all start laughing at once. His face is burning, hands are sweating, he can feel them shaking, weakly clutching his arms. Shit. Shit, he is so busted.

           “There you are! Frankie, you smokin’ with us or what?”

           “Smoking?” Frank blinks, looking away from the light after deciding he doesn’t feel like spending the rest of his life blind.

           “Yeah, smoking, like, lighting up tobacco sticks and inhaling?” Billie nods. “But wait, it gets better. There’s exhaling, too!”

           Shifting the flashlight back to the aisle, Billie starts towards the exit doors, his comrades on his heels. Frank’s not surprised to see that the guys are obviously friends with the employee. It only makes sense; they’ve clearly been coming here way longer than Frank has. Billie and the guys pause every few steps to make sure Frank is following behind them, and when the four of them emerge from the building, they all but hiss at the surprising sunlight. 


	4. Misnomers and Cigarettes

       Mikey the Talker turns out to be not much of a talker at all. At least, not with Frank. Frank doesn't really have a problem with those of the laconic nature, but Mikey's quiet demeanor only makes it more apparent how new Frank is in the circle. Being the obviously-new guy, Frank has a problem with. Therefore, Frank secretly changes Mikey's nickname to Crazy Eyes. His hazel eyes aren't crossed or darting around everywhere or bugging out of his head. They're just so unnerving, they make Frank shiver when they're focused on him. Granted, a lot of the shivering is coming from the chilly wind, because he forgot his damn coat in the auditorium. He doesn't feel _too_ stupid about it. Mikey and Billie Joe also forgot theirs, Mikey's arms folded stiffly across his bony chest as Billie snuggles into Zacky's puffy coat to steal his superior warmth. But even the subtle bites of winter aren't distracting enough from Crazy Eyes.

       “So...you're...Mikey, and Zacky, I assume...?”

       Frank cringes when the tall, gangly guy lowers his heavy eyebrows at him. Frank gets the unsettling feeling that he sees right through him, sees that he's a nervous wreck, a little spaz who already knows too much about them to pretend they're complete strangers. It's a bit embarrassing, the entire situation, because it shouldn't be a situation at all. Hell, if Frank could just be cool and not an awkward idiot, he'd probably be laughing and chatting with them already like he's supposed to.

       “I thought introductions meant you tell us  _your_  name,” Zacky says with a light laugh.

       “Frank. His name's Frank Iero, am I right?” Mikey cuts in rhetorically.

       “Uh, yeah, that's right,” Frank clears his throat, feeling like he should keep conversation going so that it could maybe veer in a better direction, which is any direction that didn't lead to him. He doubts that's going to happen, though.

       “I moved here a couple of months back. Been coming here almost every other day for a while,” Frank says. It sounds like a confession more than a statement. He feels himself caring a little less. So what if his face is about to explode from all o the heat boiling under his skin? This Mikey guy already seems to hate him.

       “I noticed,” Mikey nods. “You're pretty quiet back there.”

       “Psht, anyone's pretty quiet at the movies next to you, Mikes,” Zacky grins, clearly trying to find the perfect feet-shuffling combination that will release him from Billie's monkey grip on his body. Frank giggles at the sight, a head of black spikes sticking out from Zacky's chest, and before he can check himself, he says, “You're like a little punk parasite.”

       Billie Joe and Zacky cackle, and he catches the upward tilt on Mikey's lips. Frank wants to be offended by the surprise in Mikey's eyes, which aren't looking that crazy now, but fuck it, he made them laugh, even if it was just a silly comment.

       Conversation becomes more fluid after that, a perfect combination of Zacky's offbeat change of subject, Mikey's reluctant wit, and Billie Joe's downright ridiculous insults. After Zacky yanks a flask out of his pocket and passes it around, Frank even finds himself jumping in with his usual banter. In little time, he finds out Mikey and Zacky are seniors in high school. Looking at them now, he can definitely tell they aren't as old as he thought they were. Billie Joe, on the other hand, is nine years older than him, which is...wow. Zacky's in the middle of passing out cigarettes when a booming, deep voice suddenly makes him drop his pack in the thin sheet of snow beneath his boots.

       “What the hell do you think you're doing out here?”

       Frank flinches, too, but Mikey and Billie Joe are nonchalant. When he finds the owner of the voice standing in the side exit door, he's easily back to his jittery self. The man is wearing a neatly-pressed version of Black Curtain uniform. He's built like a fucking bodyguard, and has a short crop of light hair to go with a pair of angry blue eyes. Definitely not someone Frank wants to fuck with, or even be acknowledged by.

       “Relax, man, I'm taking a break until the power comes back,” Billie Joe sighs, clearly sated from the gratuitous sips he's been taking from the flask.

       “The power's been on for almost ten minutes, Armstrong. Get your ass back in there. Mikey, Zacky, stop enabling him.”

       “Whoa, don't drag me into this,” Zacky grins, raising his pink hands towards the man.

       “Bob, I'm coming in, just, let me finish this cigarette, I just lit it,” Billie Joe whines. The short employee barely has time to take his second drag before the big blond steps out to snatch the stick of tobacco from between his lips. Frank feels himself clamping down on his own at the sight. Again, the rest of the guys look bored, if not a little irritated.

       “Go. Now.”

       Billie Joe sighs with a dramatic eyeroll before he kicks the broomstick from inside of the exit door and drags his feet back inside. Bob takes his own couple of puffs from the cigarette before passing it to Mikey.

       “You guys need to get your asses back inside, too, it's fucking cold,” he adds before disappearing into the building as well. The second he's gone, Frank lets out a breath. He notices Mikey's staring at him again, with a knowing look.

       “Bob's cool, man,” is all he says.

       “Are you sure? I felt like I was in trouble the whole time he was out here. I was getting ready to do some fucking push-ups or something,” Frank frowns, his teeth beginning to chatter.

       “Now,  _that_ , I would love to see. Come on, give me twenty,” Zacky claps with fake command, his cigarette flapping with every word.

       “Ha! Yeah right, don't let the muscles fool you.”

       “Does anyone want this?” Mikey squints, holding Billie Joe's cigarette out between his index and thumb.

       “We'll share,” Zacky shrugs, motioning between himself and Frank.

       “Asthma,” Mikey explains with a shrug as Zacky pulls out a small comb and fixes his pompadour. It's sort of funny for Frank to witness. He feels like he's in the middle of an Outsiders reenactment or something.

       “Bob's right, it is too fucking cold. I'm heading back inside,” he mutters before making a sharp turn and heading towards the front of the theatre. It's quiet a few seconds after Frank looks after Mikey. He, too, seemed pissed off just now. Are they always this hard to read? The question must be very clear on his face because Zacky taps him on the shoulder and says Mikey's just “like that”, whatever that means.

       "You learn to get used to it. Hell, wait 'til you meet Gee. Mikey will start to look like an angel to you in no time," he adds. Frank isn't sure how to reply to that, so he just takes a drag, letting the smoke and the promise of an active social life burn all the way down to his toes before he exhales with a small laugh.

       The two of them juggle the three cigarettes. It's sort of ridiculous, but it's nice to have small moment of silence. It doesn't get any warmer, but the wind finally decides to stop bullying them.

       “So...you're not in school, and you just moved here with your parents. Who do you know here?” Zacky asks.

       “Technically, no one. It's only for a while, I think. Eddie's filling in for a couple of bands recording for another studio, maybe even looking for a new local one to manage and get their name out there.”

       “Oh, cool,” Zacky nods. “You guys move a lot, then?”

       “Sure, I mean, we don't have to, not really, but, we can, so we do. Does that make sense?” Frank frowns when Zacky just puffs and stares at him.

       “Yeah, totally. Hell, why not, right? If I could travel, I would.”

       “Where else have you been, outside of Victor?” Frank asks, rubbing the heels of his hands over the sleeves of his cardigan to warm up. It's pointless, but it's better than standing completely still.

       “Um, let's see-Nowhere,” Zacky says, looking down so that he's not looking Frank in the eyes. He actually barely met eyes with Frank since they've stepped outside, but at least he looked in the general direction of Frank's face before. Now, he just stares down at their shoes, slowly shaking his head. “I haven't stepped foot outside of Victor. None of us really have.”

       “Shit. Seriously?”

       “Yeah. Trust me, a lot of us want to, but...not all of us can afford it. Some of us are too busy, some of us don't even want to leave. I'm even sure that leaving hasn't even crossed the minds of most people in this town. This is home...”

       “Do _you_? Want to leave, I mean?”

       “Well, yeah, but...I dunno, there's some shit happening right now, and...”

       There's very strong hesitation in Zacky's voice as they finish off the cigarettes, the wind picking up again, with less aggression. He seems like he wants to say more, a lot more, but something's stopping him.

       “I know you gotta be freezing, if I'm cold. It's been fifteen minutes already,” Zacky says, looking back up at Frank with a small grin.

       They head back inside. Zacky makes sure to make fun of Billie Joe's bored solitude in the stand as they pass through the lobby. Frank has to dodge the popcorn seeds that get thrown their way, but finds himself picking up the pace when Bob quickly bursts from behind the concession stand to make Billie Joe clean it all up.

       “Poor Billie,” Frank says, more to himself.

       “Fuck Billie,” Zacky laughs, opening the auditorium door for him. He's a sort of taken by surprise at the gesture, but it's nothing compared to how he feels when he walks down the aisle and sees that his coat's been moved to the middle row, between his new buddies. He tries not to show how huge his grin is in the dark of the theatre, but when he slides to sit next to Mikey and share room-temperature popcorn with him, he just can't help it. It's like his teeth have created a force field, the way he's smiling. Luckily, Mikey takes it as a reaction towards the movie, in which a young man is playing a children's guessing game on a chalk board with what seems to be a classroom full of ghosts.

       “You totally missed it,” Mikey murmurs to Frank, as if he just returned from a bathroom break or something. “This dude just found out the elementary school he's working for s'been abandoned for almost ten years. He just found out he's being mind-fucked by a school full of dead kids.”

       “Awesome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The intensity of my previous writer's block is so embarrassing. I'm just going to crouch down and hide behind this chapter for a while. (Covers face and peeks out between fingers)


	5. Beware of the Wolves

“What's got your panties all wet, Frankie?”

The volume on Frank's laptop is up to 100 percent, and the awkward motion he makes to simultaneously press “mute” and cover the speakers is pointless. He has to settle for letting the question carry around the mostly-quiet house while his parents unload a new batch of groceries.

“Wet panties? Whose?” Eddie asks, storming into the dining room to check Frank's laptop screen. Pete waves back at them from his bedroom in Winnetka, Illinois, that stupid grin on his face making Frank want to sink into his chair.

“Pete Wentz! How's the band?” Eddie shouts. Frank winces at his step-dad’s excited tone. He's not exactly out of touch with technology, but he still manages to be one of those older men who believes he has to shout into any kind of device that connects two distant people. Mostly, it's because he's so damn lively.

“It's going amazing, I think! I mean, I got kicked out, but, I hear they're doing amazing,” he says, grimacing.

“Aw, that's too bad. What's this talk about wet panties?” Eddie asks.

“Ugh, honey, could you _not_?” Linda asks with a hint of disgust as she walks past them towards the kitchen.

“Nothing, Frankie's just really excited about something,” Pete laughs. Frank glares at his friend as Eddie follows his wife to the kitchen.

“Dude, not cool. You gotta tone it down, my parents are back.”

“Oh please, your parents are as _down_ as parents could get.”

Pete rolls his eyes with his statement, a familiar hint of jealousy somewhere in his face. It's the exact same look he had the very first night Frank brought him to his house so they could hang out. They were sixteen, and Pete was the average dorky virgin from a strict household. Frank wanted to break the ice by sneaking them a couple of whiskey-cokes, but Pete was being a wimp because he'd never been drunk before. In no time, this news got down to Eddie, who had been downstairs playing a card game with some band buddies. So they all decided to get drunk, despite Linda's denial to this very day of it ever occurring in an Iero household. They laughed themselves sick at a WWE match on TV, grilled some veggie burgers, and passed out on their living room floor. That night, Frank also got into a sloppy make out session with Pete in their living room closet when everyone else was outside, but, that's just another of the many things no one wants to admit.

“That doesn't mean I want them to hear about wet panties, in one of my conversations, man,” Frank groans.

“Then go up to your room, I hate having to censor myself.”

“No, the bandwidth up there makes you all glitchy, which means I'd have to call you on the phone instead. Then I won't be able to see that pretty little face,” Frank drones. “Now deal with it for a few more minutes.”

“Fine, fine,” Pete smiles, appeased by the compliment, no matter how sarcastic. They've been on Skype for almost twenty minutes already, in which Pete delivered (and reenacted) an explicit encounter he had with a guy named Patrick last weekend. It barely fazed Frank. He's used to their shameless conversations, but when Pete finally asked if Frank was seeing anyone, he blushed like crazy.

“Anyway, back to my question...Is it one of the guys you told me about a few nights ago? The ones from the theatre?”

“Um...The one who works there, Billie Joe, he gave me a ride home last night after his shift, finally asked me to come hang out with all of them...”

Pete's been nodding slowly along with Frank, and stops to raise his eyebrows, expectant.

“And?”

“And, it's tonight. I'm meeting the rest of their friends, and...I'm nervous as shit.”

“What, just because they're hot?”

“Well, that, and... Pete, you can stop having an attack over there, nothing actually happened with us, alright?” he chuckles, Pete no longer leaning closer to the screen with anticipation. “I was just gonna say, he said something funny to me last night, that's all.”

“Oh yeah? What'd he say?”

 

_Frank's shoe poked at the empty beer cans and the unidentifiable articles of clothing covering the floor of the passenger side of Billie Joe's car. It smelled like cheap car conditioner, cigarette smoke, mildew, and beer. But mainly cheap car conditioner. As he pulled out of the parking lot, Frank tried to ignore the way his seat jerked side-to-side, feeling like it was only kept in place by bungee cords instead of actual car equipment._

_“You mind reaching back there and grabbing some music? I've been listening to this one for two days now, it's getting fucking old,” Billie Joe said, punching the radio until a cassette tape ejected with a tiny snap. Frank was thankful for the distraction, for having something to do with his hands and point his attention somewhere. When he turned his body to do just that, he wasn't prepared for the disaster that was the back seat. There were a few more filthy clothes, a random snare drum punctured with holes, some scraps of paper, a couple of torn shoes, more beer cans, a ton of drumsticks, food containers, and three dirty shoe boxes filled up to the rims with loose cassette tapes. Some of them had thin labels with sloppy writing on them, some had random slips of paper rubber-banded around them._

_“Oh, shit!”_

_Frank's astonishment made Billie Joe laugh, the cackles sounding way louder in the somewhat quiet vehicle._

_“How long have you been living in here?” Frank asked, bringing the closest box of tapes to sit on his lap so he could at least see what some of them said. They all had weird titles: You're Being Too Loud, Put It Away, Fingerbangang, #585Fuck U Mikey, I Hate You Tonight..._

_“As a matter of fact, this isn't my car, I'm borrowing it, needed to get some shit done today. It's our friend Tre's. So, please, complain to him, maybe he'll actually listen,” Billie Joe says._

_“Are these all different bands?”_

_“I think most of them are live shows and mixtapes. I honestly can't really tell, he's so fucking weird. Those are all his tapes, too. You can just pick one, you might find something from their band.”_

_“He's in a band, too?”_

_“Huh? Oh, no, he drums for Black Parade. Here, let's try to find one,” he saed when they hit a red light. He quickly rummaged through the box of tapes._

_“Black Parade, like Mikey and Zacky's band?”_

_Frank only got vague mentions of their band, which was both new and irritating, because most guys in bands that Frank's ever spoken to never hesitated to play a few of their songs from their phones and give a full band biography in five minutes before milking him for praise. He didn't even really know what Mikey or Zacky play, or do. They just said “our band's having a few disagreements right now”, and leave it at that._

_“What do they sound like?” he found himself asking as Billy yanked a tape titled “Fursturst” from the box and stuffed it into the player._

_“Um...”_

_The car speakers immediately crackled and faded into the Offspring's “Self Esteem”, making the two of them cheer and nod with approval._

_“I fucking love the Offspring,” Frank sighed, placing the box of tapes back in the back seat._

_“Seriously, they're great. And, the guys' band, it's...I guess they sound like a few other psychobilly punk bands? Like, one of the really good ones. And I'm honestly not just, y'know, being a friend when I say that. They're honestly the shit. You'll hear 'em, soon enough. Mikey has all their demos at the Half-Way House. You should come over, actually, meet the family. We're all hangin' out, some of the guys just got back in town from Buffalo.”_

_“Buffalo, what the hell's in Buffalo?”_

_Billie Joe shrugged, another turn of the car making Frank clutch onto his door handle. The filthy Cadillac was the type of junky car that was never silent. There had been a dinging sound coming from the dashboard, the kind that usually came up when a door didn't close all the way, or a seatbelt needed to be used. It wasn't a dinging sound that got quieter or stopped, but only ignored with time. Frank also noticed there was only one visible seat belt, in the back seat, but he highly doubted anyone would be safe if the vehicle were to crash into anything. On top of the dinging and the speakers, everything in the car rattled with the tiniest movement. The ceiling cloth hung low, only held up with random band pins in scattered places, he had to admit, it was the coolest, most ridiculous car he'd ever ridden in. Wooden beads on a string hung from the rearview mirror with a ruined Ken doll head attached to the end. The hair had been painted lime green, and it had corpses paint on its face. Frank found himself giggling at the amount of detail that went into it._

_“Oh, that...That's one of the very, very rare times Gerard actually did something funny,” Billie Joe smiled._

_“Gerard..?”_

_“Gerard, he's in charge of the Half-Way House. The dude can be okay, sometimes...and by sometimes, I mean, twice a month.”_

_“Oh,” Frank said, because, well, what was there to really say about that? He already heard about the Half-Way House. Mikey and Zacky brought it up enough when they recalled past parties and house shows._

_“Yeah. Hopefully, he won't scare you off when you finally come around. I mean, if you want to,” Billie sounded a little unsure. Frank wanted to laugh at the irony. Billie said it as if Frank could possibly have something way better to do than drink in the sight and hilarious conversation of attractive guys, guys who dug good music._

_“Sure, why not?”_

_Frank decided to be as nonchalant as possible._

_“Cool! Because the boys get back in town tomorrow night. We're all gonna meet at the house, maybe around five, just to hang out, set up for a show. You know, let them settle in again. It might not be_ much _, but...promise, it'll be fun.”_

_Frank had to bite his bottom lip harder to contain his big fat smile, but when he found it didn't work, he simply looked out his window._

 

“So...you got an invite. Big whoop, what's so exciting about that-,”

“Let me finish, asshole,” Frank grins, rolling his eyes at Pete's impatience. He really could get the point across much sooner, sum it up in a few minutes, but he always loves to tease.

 

_Billie Joe was five minutes away from Frank's house, and he'd started drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Even with the mixtape blaring, and the dinging from the dashboard, it sounded pretty loud. Nervous, maybe. They had been sitting quietly for so many streets that Billie's blurted out words made Frank flinch a little._

_“You, uh, you...travel, a lot. Like, you meet, like...all kinds of people. Right?”_

_“Yeah. Right.”_

_Two minutes of silence. Frank was lost._

_“I mean, uh, I know you don't really know anyone here yet, but...you have friends out of town, yeah?”_

_“Luckily,” Frank nodded._

_“Cool...That means you got a girl somewhere, then.”_

_Frank instantly tense up. He wasn't in denial, or even in the closet, and if he were at a bar with Eddie or out on a stroll downtown, he wouldn't blink an eye before answering anyone who questioned his sexuality, or status. But he was in what was barely an acquaintance's car, for one. The way Billie Joe said it wasn't even a question, but he was obviously waiting for Frank to respond. And, also, what the fuck, why this question all of a sudden? Why had it been set up so weirdly?_

_“Nope. No girl.”_

_“Ah.”_

_More muted tension. Billie Joe drove stiffly, stared straight ahead. Frank felt like he was going to be sick, because the guy could either be a gay basher waiting to attack, or was about to set him up. Whatever the case, Frank wasn't ready for any of it. If he hadn't heard Billie Joe express his never-ending lust for a girl named Melody, he'd have thought Billie Joe was fixing to ask him out or something._

_“Why?” Frank finally asked._

_“Um, it's not a big deal. I don't think. Just, we've all mostly grew up together. All of us, we're very close, so, we know things about each other that most people in this town aren't too cool about, and...”_

_Frank couldn't take it. The buildup was getting freaking annoying and Billie's words were all over the place._

_“What's the point? What are you getting at?”_

_“Well...some of our friends, they're...gay.”_

_“Gay.”_

_“Mm-hmm. They have it pretty hard here in Victor, you know? In school?”_

_“Oh.”_

_Billie must have recognized Frank's surprised “that's all?” tone, because the next glance he tossed Frank's way was of amusement._

_“So, you couldn't tell that I'm gay?” Frank frowned. Billie's laughter filled the car, inbetween confirming another turn towards Frank's neighborhood._

_“I honestly could't tell. You just have this_ way _about you...”_

_“What way?” Frank grinned, suddenly very interested in this turn of conversation. The awkwardness that had filled the car before was quickly airing out, and suddenly their voices didn't seem so loud anymore._

_“Like, when you talk to people, it's kind of...charming, like...it feels like you're being flirtatious without flirting, like...”_

_Billie Joe's cheeks tinted with a light pink, and Frank couldn't hold in his laughs._

_“Seriously?”_

_“Well, yeah. You intimidate the shit out of Zacky. He pulled me aside a few times, saying how hot he thinks you are, but...no one had the balls to just ask you anything.”_

_That was quite a bit to take in. Zacky's the most collected with Frank, or so he thought._

_“Huh?”_

_“Yep. You're fresh meat, Frankie. Fresh, juicy, glistening, bloody-,”_

_“Ew. Please, compare me to anything that's not meat, would you?” Frank chuckled, shuddering._

_“Fresh fruit?”_

_“Ha ha.”_

_“You asked for it. You made it too easy.”_

_“You were the one who got way too into the description in the first place.”_

_“Fuck, man, they're gonna fuckin'...fight over you like a pack of wolves.”_

_“Like vultures stabbing at a corpse?”_

_“Joke all you want, but, I'm just tellin' ya what I know. I want to give you a heads up before you come by. They're all a bit much already, dude, but when you come around...shit, they're gonna make total asses of themselves.”_

_“Can't wait,” Frank mumbled, his face getting hotter by the minute._

 

“Wait...you're telling me you've been in that shitty little town for what, that little amount of time and you've already managed to meet random cute guys? Fuck you.”

Frank grinned at the screen as Pete blew on his fingernails. He'd been painting them black as Frank told him about last night, and just watching him do something so familiar and so _Pete_ made him want to reach into the screen and hug him to death.

“You into that Zacky guy?”

“Um...no, not really. I mean, don't get me wrong, he's not bad-looking and he's pretty cool, but...I don't really look at him that way. None of them, actually.”

“Ouch. Frankie the Heartbreaker strikes again,” Pete said. “What happened to 'oh my god, Pete, they're so attractive', huh?”

“Come on, just because I don't want to fuck any of them-,”

“Frank!”

“-doesn't mean I can't recognize it,” Frank continued, choosing to ignore his eavesdropping mother in the kitchen.

“True. I guess. Whatever,” Pete sighed, starting on a different topic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I knowwwwwwwwww, Gee will be in the next chapter, promises. Writing it right now :3


	6. The Calm Before... Part I

Frank couldn't stop tapping his fork against the edge of his dinner plate, and his armpits becoming itchier every other tick of the clock. Eddie and his mom have been talking enthusiastically about their jobs, how Eddie has become infatuated with a local studio guitarist, and why Linda wants to rip her hair out of her head every time her boss calls her phone at her desk, “even though the jerk is sitting just ten freaking feet away”. She whines about her assistant duties for a bit, but Frank and his stepfather can tell she enjoys her job at Victory Brewery more than she lets on (if her sudden interest in local beers is any indication, because she's always been a wine person).

“Are you taking up drumming?” Eddie finally comments when Frank's tapping becomes annoying.

“No, just, I'm hanging out with Billie tonight, for the first time. He's introducing me to all of his friends.”

“Oh? Are you and Billie...?”

“God no!” Frank chuckles, shaking his head. He isn't afraid to admit that he entertained the thought for probably a few days into meeting him. It faded in little to no time. Trying to picture them as anything more than friends makes Frank want to crack up.

“You haven't met any of them?” his mother asks, trying to cut through a stubborn piece of lasagna with a dull butter knife. The pasta just slides back and forth over the cheese and sauce. Frank immediately remembers his own food and decides to begin eating. He makes sure to savor it. His mom, along with Eddie, has only just started to get back into the habit of making dinner every night. There have been a few times when they had sublet homes in other towns for a small amount of time, and they got very familiar with paper menus flooding their kitchen counters, and having bowls of individual sauce packets growing faster than any of their potted plants. The three of them have been in Victor for a few months now, though, and so far there's been no talk of leaving any time soon; so, Frank assumes his parents may have signed a year-long lease, which, if tonight goes well, he could definitely get behind.

“There's Mikey, and Zacky, but that's it,” he shrugs when he realizes how long the pause has been.

“What are your plans, then? For tonight?”

Frank takes a second to appreciate her curious tone. It's usually a “you better not be drinking, smoking, or fucking anything, anywhere” tone. He's not sure if it's because she too is enjoying the steady living they're a part of right now and is more relaxed, or if she's giving him more leeway now that he's eighteen. Whatever the reason, he isn't going to question it.

“I don't know, really. I think he's taking me to someone's house for a show. He said some of the guys' band is gonna play, so...”

“Wow, Frankie. Good for you, sounds like fun,” Eddie grins. He reaches over to lightly punch Frank in the shoulder.

“Yeah, it should be. And you can't come with us,” Frank giggles, dodging another hit as he shovels more food into his mouth.

“Wouldn't dream of it...not this time, anyway. But you know how much I enjoy young local bands,” Eddie hedges. He's only half-joking, and that makes Frank wonder if he'll ever be so passionate about rock and roll that he'll elbow his way into semi-adolescent basement shows just to hear a good band when he hits Eddie's age.

“I know. Just, let me get to know the guys first. I don't need my weird stepdad shouting in their faces, I'm nervous enough as it is,” Frank mutters.

“Hey! Who are you to call anyone weird?” Eddie chuckles, twisting his fork in Frank's direction with a circular motion. “And you say that like it's a bad thing. Weird is something to embrace.”

“And don't be so nervous, you'll be fine. Just please be careful,” his mom adds. She has a warm smile on her face, and Frank just wants to lean over and kiss her on the cheek. So he does. Before she or Eddie have time to make a teasing comment about the affection, there's a very loud pounding at the front door. Frank shoots out of his chair, shoving two more forkfuls of his lasagna in his mouth, because his mother isn't a bad cook and he isn't an idiot.

“Tha's pwabwy Bi'ee,” his food says before sliding down his throat.

“Don't worry about the plate, I'll wrap it up,” Linda sighs. “You're on kitchen duty when you get back, though.”

“No problem, thank you, dinner was amazing, love you,” Frank rushes out before dashing to the front door. Well, not dashing. Maybe just a slightly quicker than normal walk. No, he wouldn't be so lame as to dash to the door...like a starry eyed teenager, getting picked up by Billie Joe, the small town bad boy. It almost makes him want to laugh, the idea of growing up here and possibly channeling Sandy from Grease. He purposely avoids the mirror in the entryway. He knows that if he even glances for a second, he'll get sucked into the reflection of obsessive self-doubt and “should I switch shirts” and “why does my hair always stick up right there” and... _well, maybe swapping the cardigan for a normal jacket wouldn't hurt. No_ , he tells himself. It's more in Pete's voice, from earlier, when his friend gave him advice via webcam until they settled on tight, ripped jeans, a Bouncing Souls tee, and thick black cardigan with a single red pin shaped like a guitar pic by the collar.

Finally pulling himself together, he opens his front door to greet Billie Joe.

Except, it's not Billie Joe. It's Mikey Way, shivering on his front porch in his thin jacket. When Frank refrains from checking to see if anyone else is with him, he notices Mikey already speaking to him.

“Hmm?”

“I said you're in luck, Zacky has heat in his car now,” he repeats around what Frank thinks is supposed to be a smile. It's not weird that he's smiling, but it is weird that it's finally being pointed at Frank. Even weirder is how open and less annoyed Mikey seems to be in general. The good kind of weird.

“So, no flowers for me?” Frank pouts, poking out his bottom lip. Mikey rolls his eyes and turns to quietly walk off the porch as Frank locks up. They reach the running vehicle sitting in the driveway, and Mikey automatically passes shotgun privileges to Frank. Zacky's talking on his cellphone, so the most Frank gets out of him is a nod before they're on their way. The car ride is pretty quiet, aside from Zacky's endless phone call with someone named Mike. It's not that awkward, though, especially when Mikey looks up from his texting to laugh with Frank's reflection in the rearview mirror when they catch something hilarious or weird on the radio station. It's not exciting, and it's not terrible. It just feels nice. Like the three of them do this all the time.

“Are you guys playing tonight?” Frank asks. He doesn't even try to hide the excitement.

“Fuck no. Mike's our voice, and he's whining because he got a fucking sore throat this morning,” Zacky says pointedly into his cell. He sounds pissed off, but he's got a smile plastered on his face that makes his cheeks look round and rosy, kind of like a kid.

“Yeah, a show isn't gonna happen tonight. So Billie Joe had to run and get his own guitar and his notebook, so he can play instead. Nothing big, just kind of last minute, for us. He's not a play for strangers type of guy yet.”

“Seriously? Who does he play with?”

“He's solo,” Mikey shrugs, barely looking up from his messaging screen.

“Awesome. I'm actually pretty stoked, I heard him sing to himself behind the stand sometimes. Are there gonna be a ton of people?”

“Nah. We're not that popular,” Mikey grins.

In no time, they're stopping in front of a tiny, run-down shotgun house. It's puke green with a couple of wooden chairs and empty beer bottles on the cement slab that's supposed to be a porch. The sight makes Frank sink into his seat. The second Zacky honks his horn, Billie bursts through the screen door with a guitar case under one arm and a six-pack of beer in the other. The sight of his more familiar friend makes Frank perk up a little. When he scrambles into the backseat, the atmosphere of the car changes entirely. What once was dead air (aside from the quiet radio) is now filled with heavy breathing and greetings and acknowledging chuckles.

“Whoa, you got Frankie to come out! Awesome!” Billie laughs, reaching out to slap him on the arm.

“Barely,” Frank retorts, turning around to shove him. It immediately becomes a flurry of arms and giggles until Zacky honks his horn, Frankie and his partner in crime freezing from the abrupt sound.

“Fuckers, calm down before you cause an accident.”

“Whatever. So how ya been, kiddo?” Billie nods from the back as Frank gets comfortable facing his body more towards the backseat.

“Today's been okay, caught up with my best friend for a few hours-,”

“Wait, _I'm_ your best friend,” Billie frowns, putting on a confused face.

“You're nobody's best friend,” Mikey mutters, still excessively scrolling through his phone.

“It's true, I've been trying to find the right time to tell you how much I hate you, actually,” Frank adds.

“Oh, you're a comedian-,”

“You know what? You're in the backseat. I'm not even supposed to be talking to you,” he teases, repositioning so that he's facing forward.

“Welcome back to the world of superior seating arrangement,” Zacky smiles, just before whispering a curse at a car that almost cut him off.

“It's good to be back.”

“You two are losers-,”

“You hear something?” Frank asks Zacky.

“Nah. I thought I heard something from the backseat, but...couldn't have been anything worth listening to.”

They continue picking on each other for the remainder of the ride, shushing and ignoring Mikey and Billie Joe when they attempt to speak. They even go as far as adjusting their front seats to smash their two friends. By the time they reach their destination, Zacky and Frank are reclining so far back that they can barely see over the dashboard. He would have been worried about that, but the other guys swore they could get to the Half Way House with their eyes closed.

“We're here, dickheads,” Billie Joe laughs. “You can stop now.”

That's when Frank sees it. The sun hasn't set all the way just yet, so it's light enough to clearly see the house. They have to drive up a gravel path that's about thirty yards through what's simply a large sheet of white snow. The house is nothing like what Frank pictured, not even close. It's got to have at least more than three bedrooms. White, two-three story colonial with a big porch that wraps around the front and right side of the house. There are black panels on the sides of each window, which all seem to be glowing a golden yellow behind a few silhouettes. It looks clean, and expensive. The only sign of atypical occupants is the line of motorcycles and vehicles parked along the long path. Zacky parks the closest to the house, right before a large oak tree that probably shades a great deal of the front yard when its leaves have grown. It's beautiful.

The guys catch Frank's awe and grin, pride clear on all of their faces. He was honestly expecting a run-down club, or a shabby house, but he's quickly learning not to make assumptions.

“Wow.”

“Home sweet home,” Mikey chuckles, sliding out of the car. Frank feels giddy as he walks up the creaky porch steps. There's a deep thrum of blues music coming from inside, along with muffled shouts and laughs.

“Why is it called the Half Way House, anyway?” Frank squints as they watch Zacky and Billie Joe pull a few things out of the trunk.

“It's originally our family's, the Ways. Me and Gee. But now some of our friends live here, so...”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

Frank wants to ask where the rest of the Way family is, if there is more of the Way family, but he doesn't feel comfortable enough yet. Especially if it turns out to be a “they died” response. He hopes that's not the case, but he's sure that'd put a damper on the good mood they've set.

“What are you turds standing there for? Open the door for us already,” Billie shouts, juggling a large crate of more beer, topped with his original six-pack, and his guitar swinging unsteadily on his back. Frank gets kicked away when he reaches out to help, so he decides to hold the screen open for them as they all pile inside.

The second the front door is opened, a flood of noise and light oozes into the night. Obviously, it's pretty intimidating. He's about to walk into a sea of inside jokes, close bonds, slurred shouts of confidence, unknown musicality, leather jackets and greasy hair. It's enough to make him feel a little sick. For a second, he thinks about letting himself vomit, and going back home. Instead, he sucks it up and dives right in.

The entryway is vacant and wide, a grand set of stairs forming an impressive indoor balcony around the second floor's platform. Everything inside is dark, deep red woods and black rugs and rusted-gold lighting. The warmth wraps around him in a sneaky manner, and it smells like cinammon, old beer and marijuana, sweet corn, and...coffee. It's an odd yet pleasant combination. Frank's eyes can't settle on one thing for more than five seconds. The entrance alone is overwhelming. The wall aligning the paisley staircase is covered in framed pictures and posters of what he assumes are family, friends, some bands he doesn't recognize. There's a broken chrome guitar strategically glued back together above open double doors on his left which lead to what he assumes is the living room, because that's where some guys and ladies are lounging on the couches and chairs, deep in conversation as a bulky redheaded man with a devil lock and a Koffin Kats jacket shouts over them, his beer barely sloshing around in his hand. There's a large scar on his face, and Frank feels himself gulp before turning his attention back to the house itself.

There's a lifesize plaster statue of Frankenstein's Monster standing at the end of the entryway, beside the opening that Billie and Zacky walk through, which is clearly the kitchen. They hang whatever scarf or extra jacket they were wearing on the statue as they pass it, so he's got jackets over his shoulders and gloves swinging from his fingers. There's also a lot of crap that Frank can't even fully comprehend, like a loose bag of what he thinks could be wine duct taped by the front door, the spigot hanging down above a handmade sign that says “check in”. The only thing Frank knows for sure is that he loves it. All of it. It's honestly one of the most punk rock houses he's ever stepped foot in.

“So? What'cha think?” Mikey laughs. “We scarin' you off yet?”

Frank isn't sure how to respond other than shake his head dumbly and blink, mouth agape like a child at the zoo. He already wants to drop to his knees and beg that they take him in.

“It's pretty awesome.”

“Cool. Pretty much everybody's here. Let me show you around.”

The introductions are a blur. Everyone's incredibly welcoming, even the more stern, quiet ones. He feels bad that he forgets half of their names, and his hands are covered in different temperatures of sweat, beer residue, and he thinks ashes after shaking hands with everyone. (They're all big on handshakes, he notes. He also notices that, like Mikey and Zacky, a lot of them start by saying “you must be Frankie”). No one asks boring questions like where he's from, how old he is, where he goes to school; mainly, they want to know if he wants beer or liquor, how tall he is next to Billie Joe, and whether he thinks Rusty (the scarred redhead) should paint his new bike red or purple. This last question easily pulls him into the large pit of conversation and involves Rusty and a handful of the guys tugging him outside to show him their rides and get his opinion of them. He doesn't know much about cars or bikes, and he doesn't pretend to, and they don't seem to care.

The most noticeable ones he catches are the two most traditional looking greasers, Matt and Syn. Syn is a local mailman who lives in one of the downstairs bedrooms. He's tall and built, with a shit ton of tattoos under his tight black t-shirt and cuffed blue jeans. Not as built as Matt, though, which is pretty hard not to notice due to the fact that he's not wearing a shirt. He's a mechanic with a dimpled smile that he only flashes when Frank compliments his bright red Road King bike. There are also a few ladies in the house. One of them, the most gorgeous pin-up Frank has ever laid eyes on, is a woman named Lindsey. She's got long, milky legs standing on blood red pumps, black, shiny locks pulled into a high bun, an hourglass figure pinched under a black dress, and a bright, pouty smile. Half of the guys refer to her as “the misses”.

After half an hour, most of them are settled into the living room, which is more of a shitstorm of awesome decoration, on the furniture that circles around the blazing fireplace. Billie Joe is sitting in the very center with his acoustic in his lap, strumming and interrupting every now and then with a short song or some lyrics he'd been working on. It's a very nonchalant performance, and everybody's talking so quickly and everything is moving so fluently that Frank doesn't have time to revel in how incredible Billie sounds, how hilarious certain people are, or what kind of beer he just had.

“So, Frankie, how long you staying here in Victor?” Syn asks, inevitably turning everyone's attention on him.

“Not sure, at least a year. Our family kind of needs a break, and we like it here so far,” he shrugs.

“Yeah, well, you're lucky you met us before the other fucking guys got to you,” Matt sneered, wrapping his big arms around a blonde lady on his lap with a Buddy Holly portrait tattooed on her right leg.

“Fucking right. See this right here?” Rusty asked, pointing to the scar across his face. “Good example of what happens when you pull up outside of a bar full of fucking dickheads in Jeeps blasting Foo Fighters-,”

“That was when you fought that guy Brandon and his friends, right?” Mikey frowns.

“Fuck yeah, fuck those guys. Got him good though, broke half the bones in his fucking right arm. Asshole was too fucking proud to rat me out. Wouldn't have done him any good, anyway,” Rusty snarls, a mix of amusement and bloodlust on his face. Frank quickly reminds himself to smile at him as much as he can.

“Rusty's brother is part of the law enforcement here,” Mikey mutters in Frank's ear as the redhead rants, cracking his knuckles and getting the majority of the guys rowdy. The room is abruptly filled with cackles and half-assed shouts of anger, knuckles cracking and mimed fights. It's definitely the point in the evening that reminds Frank he's not just sitting in a house full of guys with a nostalgic fashion sense and music taste. These guys are the real deal. He feels himself reposition in his seat between Mikey and Zacky, who are onto a different subject, and he focuses his attention on them because it's what his buzzed state can handle at the moment.

“Your girl Alicia showing up tonight?” Zacky asks, stumbling over the last few words. His face is flushed and his eyes are drooped. He's also sitting way closer to Frank than Mikey is. Frank pretends to ignore it.

“Nah, she said she'll be up too late if she comes over, and she's got shit to do in the morning.”

“Lame.”

“I know, I mean,” Mikey lowers his voice, leaning into Frank and Zacky more. “It would be cool to see her tonight, I just know the guys are gonna get trashed and out of control and my patience is pretty short-lived. Gee's gonna bitch and bitch.”

“How's he been since Tre took the trip?”

“The same. Only, without the extra complaints,” Mikey says with a long eye roll that ends on Frank. “Please tell me you're staying over tonight.”

This takes Frank by surprise, and he cautiously glances around the room, eyes landing on Rusty and Matt who are now shoving each other around, the other guys clapping and shouting and laughing. He's sure it's not serious, and maybe even funny if you already know them, but right now it just makes him nervous.

“Um...I-,”

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?” Mikey asks, taking a swig of his beer.

“No...” Frank answers reluctantly.

“You're staying. Someone will drive you home tomorrow. Don't worry, there's only five of us living here.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“We'll have a movie night. Trust me, the whole night's not like this.”

“That's a relief. These guys are intense,” Frank grins quietly, Mikey and Zacky quickly nodding in agreement. He feels even more lucky that he managed to cling to the most relaxed of the guys, too.

“You guys planning a threesome over there or somethin'?” Billie Joe shouts from his spot.

“Hell yeah, it was my idea,” Mikey laughs airily, resting his arm behind Frank on the back of the couch. This gets some laughs out of most of the guys, and Matt and Rusty stumble heavily out of the room to the kitchen to grab themselves more beers.

They're in the midst of less aggressive conversation when all of a sudden, the front door opens and closes with a loud slam that shakes the house. Frank yelps because it almost sounds like something crashed into the porch, or something fell onto the roof, but he knows that's not the case when the silence if filled with a loud, boisterous “Honey, I'm hooooome!” Half of the people in the living room stands up as boots clomp around in the halls under excited greetings and cheers and laughs. Mikey and Zacky stand too, more enthusiastic at the new company that they were obviously expecting, but they don't move to join the others in the hall.

“Where's our other half?” one of the new voices asks from behind the crowd. Even standing, Frank can't see above Rusty and the guys' heads, but that's not something he's going to dwell on. Then, everyone parts to reveal a bleached-blonde man, pale and slender, holding onto the legs of Billie Joe, who's attached himself onto his back. Mike, everyone's calling him, and he makes his way towards Mikey and Zacky, giving them high fives.

“Hey, kiddo,” he smiles, turning to Frank with his hand raised high. Frank is in such a fantastic mood, and feels so loosened up, he ignores the hand and pulls the guy into a hug, which means wrapping his arms around Billie Joe as well, the three of them laughing at the weird standing cling-fest they've formed. Just as Frank pulls away and pushes his hands through his hair to slide it out of his face, he's met with a guy just a pinch taller than him, whose booming voice was suddenly stopped with a wide, slow smile. He's definitely one of the most attention-grabbing of the crew, with his atomic green pomp and eyeliner around bright blue eyes. Bright blue eyes that are sliding all over Frank, with no shame whatsoever, leaving zero doubt that he's checking him out. Undressing him with his eyes-Hell, _invading_ him with his eyes. Everyone around them seems to be sharing an amused, knowing look with each other, and Frank just knows he's blushing furiously at the attention, but he realizes that he has to say something or else this guy might just keep eye-fucking him for at least an hour.

“I'm Frank,” he grins, holding out his hand. The guy takes it and secures a firm grip with a very slow shake, keeping eye contact that Frank can't make himself break out of.

“Frank...Nice name. I love that name,” he nods with a smirk. Some of the guys find this funny, but he isn't sure why. “I'm Tre. Where ya from?”

“A lot of places. Jersey, originally.”

“Me, too.”

“Really?”

“No.”

Frank snorts, and finds himself unable to stop grinning because Tre won't stop shaking his hand, not loosening his tight grip.

“You're really short.”

“I'm glad you notice.”

“I'm noticing a lot of things about you,” Tre replies, making Frank's cheeks heat up a little more, especially with their immediate flirt session becoming the center of attention. It's forward enough to make Frank squint his eyes at him, questioning whether this guy was such a goofball that he just flirted as a joke.

“Are you?”

“Mm-hm, I love the Bouncing Souls.”

Frank's struggle not to laugh too much results in some giggling, Tre's grip on his hand not letting up.

“Notice something about me?” he asks Frank.

“I notice your hands are really sweaty,” Frank snarks, getting a matching grin out of Tre.

“No. I'll give you a hint. It's about seven inches and too hard to bend-,”

“Tre, seriously,” Mikey groans, flopping back down onto the couch as Frank finally manages to retrieve his hand.

“Relax, I'm talkin' about my new score,” he chuckles, raising the 7” vinyl of Big Black in his other hand.

“You're hilarious,” Mikey deadpans. “Oh, and hi, by the way. Since you forgot other people are here, too.”

“Fuck off,” Tre quips, only sparing a glance at Mikey to toss the vinyl to him before snapping his eyes back to Frank.

“You smoke, Frank?”

The second he says that, Frank realizes that yeah, a cigarette does sound really nice right now, especially after the couple of beers he just guzzled within the hour he's been in the house.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Great. Because I'd love to smoke a cigarette with you.”

“O...kay,” Frank says hesitantly, not wanting to show how charmed he is by this bold character.

“Cool, grab a jacket, let's go,” he smiles, nodding towards the front door. By now, everyone's back to talking amongst each other, mostly surrounding Mike.

“Oh shit, I didn't bring my jacket-,”

“Just grab one of Mikey's from the hall,” Tre shrugs with an easy smile, stepping closer towards the crowded hall entrance. When Frank looks to Mikey, he shrugs and continues listening to what Mike is saying to the group. Zacky digs into one of his inner pockets, pulling his own pack out.

“What are you doing?” Tre asks, the three of them pausing their walk.

“Going for a smoke-,”

“Nah, you don't really need a smoke right now, do ya?” Tre asks. He places his hand on Zacky's chest to sort of guide him back into the living room, and they share a weird look that makes Frank feel awkward before Zacky rolls his eyes and heads towards the kitchen, hands balled into loose fists.

“Let's go,” Tre smiles, pulling Mikey's brown jacket off of Frankenstein's Monster and wrapping it around Frank. Surely he knows the action isn't necessary, but Frank is clever enough to know it's Tre's excuse to get a little closer to him. He even makes a show of nudging people out of the way for Frank as they head out, opening the door for him into the cold night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually half of chapter six. I had to split it in two. O.O I also wrote this at 12AM so there may be mistakes. Will edit later.


	7. The Calm Before... Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's happening, guys....here we go

“Frank,” Tre began, a cloud of winter air puffing from his mouth as smoke billowed out of his nostrils. He resembled a sort of devil with the smirk he wore, and ogled Frank in a way that only people wearing sunglasses would be bold enough to. It made Frank both annoyed and thankful that he got a few drinks in. Judging by his company's stance, he was fully prepared to squirm...or blurt out something embarrassingly weird. He tended to do that when his food to alcohol ratio was reversing.

They were posted in the corner of the porch, leaning against the railing and post. Ever since they stepped outside, Tre took to the snow piling up on the edges and began forming snowballs, with his bare hands. This was a feat to Frank, he could barely pull his hands out of Mikey's jacket to operate his cigarette.

“You in school?”

“Nah.”

“Well, what do you do, then?”

Frank lazily shrugged, looking down at his boots.

“I mostly scout for bands and musicians with my dad, for now.”

“Mm. Find anyone good yet?”

“To be honest, I kind of have my eye on Billie Joe. Haven't talked to him about it yet, gotta see how he feels,” Frank muttered, meeting Tre's eyes again. He kind of surprised himself with that statement, it hadn't really crossed his mind to make connections until that very moment. After saying it aloud, it couldn't be more obvious.

“Yeah, there's a lot of good music coming out of this town, for sure. Who else you got your eye on?” Tre suddenly asked, not missing a beat. His voice was light and hushed, but his tone was just floating on the surface of flirtatious.

 _Ah. And so it begins_ , Frank thought.

“Uh, I'm not sure, for now,” he said slowly, eyes narrowed as Tre picked up one of his perfectly-formed snowballs and began to lightly toss it in the air. He worried he'd be covered in it before they stepped inside, he'd be guaranteed another week or two in bed.

“Got any direction you wanna point me in?” Frank decided to add, down to his penultimate puff. There was a slight pause in the snowball tossing as Tre blinked at him. He seemed surprised by Frank's reciprocation. Sure, Frank could be a little hesitant at first, but Pete didn't call him a heartbreaker for no reason. The battle of wits didn't continue in the way he assumed it would, though. Tre was stepping close to him (well, closer than the eight inches of space he gave Frank before), excruciatingly slow. Slow enough for Frank to remember how much he despised the sound of snow crunching under shoes when it was as silent as it was outside. Slow enough for Frank to finish his cigarette and step to the side before Tre reached him to...do God knows what, despite the fact that Frank had a slight idea of what exactly it was.

“Freezing,” Frank blurted out, without having to exaggerate a full-body shiver before heading inside. He didn't have to turn around to know Tre was grinning at him.

 

The little party died down in two hours' time. Powerful belches interrupted even more powerful goodbyes that ricocheted off the walls of the house. By the time Matt and the non-residents of the house were shouting praises at Frank and slapping him on the shoulders, he had sobered up. He felt like he had to, with Tre clinging to him for what seemed to be the majority of the night. He had returned shortly after their smoke break throwing snowballs at the guys sitting down, and proceeded to poke and prod at Frank even more. He wouldn't have minded if Billie Joe and Mikey didn't toss teasing chuckles at him every time Tre got distracted by something other than Frank's knuckles or the way he bit into his lip ring. He'd never had someone so zoned in on him before. He wasn't exactly sure how okay he was with it. Not yet, anyway.

Before he knew it, he was in a tight hug with Billie Joe, who was without a doubt pissed off his face. The musician could barely even pull his coat back on. He especially was past the point of lowering his voice when he said, “Iloveyou, don'tfuckTretonight, please.” With a bite to Frank's ear, Billie Joe finally pulled away, slapped him on the ass, and tugged on Tre's sleeve to head out to the car. For the first time that night, Frank saw some pink forming on Tre's face before he laughed it off and dragged his smaller friend out of the house to drive him home.

The house was quiet for once, and Frank exhaled with a large amount of breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. It was an odd combination of feelings, that made his brows furrow and the tips of his fingers tingle.

“Frankie Frankie Frankie,” Mikey suddenly said, walking up behind him to slide his arm around his neck and pull him into the same choke-hold-hug thing that his stepfather liked to pull him in.

“I'm getting a little tired of people saying my name,” Frank groaned around a giggle. For someone to be so lean, Mikey a was strong bastard. Muscles, skin, and pointy joints.

“Well, you're gonna hear it a million more times because I have some shit to tell you,” Mikey laughed. He spun them around the empty living room and walked down the hallway with a struggling Frank sputtering into his side.

“Where's Zacky?” Frank frowned, remembering that he's one of the few people who he didn't catch a goodbye with, along with Lindsey, who retired to her bedroom at the bottom of the staircase earlier in the night. Finally free, he had time to catch a childhood photo of Mikey on the wall and earn a nonchalant “fuck off”. It made him happy that after this night, even the harshest of comments translated to “he loves me” when it came to Mikey.

“I told you, I have something to tell you.”

The way Mikey said this made Frank's insides burn with apprehension, but he trudged into the kitchen without another word.

And almost stopped on his tracks.

There was a guy in a chair leaning on the back legs with his feet crossed on the small kitchen table, scanning what looked like a takeout menu. He was dressed in a faded, oversized Monty Python t-shirt that barely draped over plain black boxers, the palest legs Frank's ever seen on display. They had various bruises in a few places. Hell, he had a few bruises all over. Not the kind he felt bashful about hiding, anyway. And when he raised his head to roll it around his shoulders for a few seconds, wild black hair flopping in and out of his face, Frank caught a long, clean scar across the front of the guy's neck.

It was Pretty Boy.

Except, close-up, he looked more threatening than pretty.

Frank didn't let his quick look turn into a stare, though, and followed Mikey's lead of practically ignoring the guy and walking past him to the refrigerator that was placed oddly right beside the back door. Pretty Boy made no move to let their presence affect him. Which, after having nothing but enthusiastic introductions with everyone thus far, was kind of irritating to Frank. He may have even been more bothered that he even cared.

“Man, do my and Lindsey's trips to the market count at fucking all in this house?” Mikey asked, pushed a few opens cans of beer around the shelves to reveal a single pot on the bottom shelf covered with a large dinner plate. He slid it out of the refrigerator and sat it on the counter beside Frank. It was, apparently, the remains of some type of macaroni salad. The sight and smell of it was enough to make Frank puke.

The entire kitchen, now that Frank was paying more attention, was gross. One of those kitchens that you probably had to rewash every single thing you wanted to use, whether it was in the sink or not. “Wanted” having a very loose meaning. He also made a note to never walk in the room barefoot, unless he wanted his soles to look as filthy as the bottom of Pretty Boy's socks.

“Wanna put in for some pizza?” Mikey asked him in a defeated tone.

“Sure.”

“Cool. Gerard, add a large cheese to that order.”

“Fuck you, order it yourself,” Pretty Boy- _Gerard, of course this was Mikey's brother_ -murmured. He sounded like he just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in the span of five minutes, though his voice wasn't as deep as Frank had assumed. It was fitting, actually.

“We'll give you the money, asswipe, you're already ordering something anyway,” Mikey said, a pissed off look snapping into place. It looked a little too comfortable on his face for it to be the loveable banter Frank had seen him share with everyone else.

Gerard finally looked up to glare at Mikey. Frank thought the older brother threw a nanosecond-long glance at him, but he could have been wrong. Not that he'd want those eyes on him, if he was being honest.

“Who the fuck is that?”

“My friend Frank, he just-,”

“Medium, meat lovers, extra peppers,” Gerard interrupted, sitting back up to drop the menu on the table along with a five dollar bill. It was as if Mikey and Frank weren't there at all, just two life-size versions of a drive-thru intercom, one not important enough to look over during the order. With that, he stood up and walked out of the kitchen, a slam of Lindsey's bedroom door adding finality.

“Fucking dick,” Mikey growled, snatching the five dollars up and slamming down on the previously occupied chair. Feeling a little awkward and a great deal offended, Frank took a seat across from him. It was a strange peek into the Half-Way House. Coming into the house of theatrics and a load of people, it seemed thriving. Awesome as the place was, now it just seems kind of tense and...lonely.

“Don't pay him any mind unless you wanna punch him in the fucking face,” Mikey said, shouting the last few words towards the main hallway.

“Man, what I wouldn't give to have a brother,” Frank joked, finally getting Mikey to soften his attitude and give Frank a tiny smile.

“What are you guys fighting about?” he asked quietly, watching Mikey pull out his cellphone and speed dial the pizza place.

“We're not fighting. That's just how it is.”

 


End file.
